


Love Not in Haste

by appleapple



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: AU, Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleapple/pseuds/appleapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in mourning for Diana Stephen accepts an unusual offer from Jack; there are unexpected repercussions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Not in Haste

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of bonding as a commonplace part of marriage (nothing too extreme, I don't think!) I've messed with some stuff in the timeline. AU obviously. Potentially unflattering portrayal of Diana, mentions of her death.

Stephen lay in bed, trembling and unhappy.  The house was a large one, built to accommodate a family, and his bedroom lay on the first floor, some little distance from Jack’s and Sophie’s rooms.  The children had their nursery on the floor above, and there were rooms in the attic for the servants.

Below on the ground floor were the dining room, parlors, sitting rooms, and music room that must attend any affluent London family.  This house was rented, and perhaps because of that it was a finer one than the family might have been able to otherwise afford.

When he could bear it no longer he pushed back his blankets and crept down the narrow back hallway that connected the bedrooms, as stealthy as a thief.  Jack’s room was always unlocked of course, and he put out a hand and turned the doorknob quietly.  What he saw gave him pause.  Sophie was there.  Sophie, in Jack’s room, sleeping on Jack’s left side.  He had never known her to do such a thing; always it was Jack that came to her.

He would have retreated back to his own room, to pass out the night sleeplessly, but Jack saw him in the darkness.

“Stephen?” he asked sleepily.  “Come here, Stephen,” and he turned down the covers on his right side.  

What choice did he have?  He approached the bed to climb in beside Jack, and in a moment Jack had him comfortably arranged.  Jack was only half awake, and asleep again almost instantly, but that did nothing to stop the caressing warmth Stephen felt, as real as the breath on the back of his neck or the heavy arm covering his waist.  He could feel Jack’s love for him, comforting and heavy, radiating outwards.  It was enough to turn out the tension and misery that had been plaguing him all evening, and in a minute he was deliciously warm and sleepy.

 

 

He woke alone the next morning, but it could not be very late.  He went back to his own room and dressed before joining the rest of the family for breakfast.

“Ah, Stephen,” Jack clucked.

In spite of his protests he was dragged to Jack’s side, thereupon his cravat was re-tied, his sleeves tugged, the back of his jacket dusted, and other sundry little tasks performed until the family judged him to be presentable.  Only then was he allowed to take his seat by Jack’s side, scowling until coffee was poured out for him.    
  
The children had been allowed to eat breakfast with their parents, according to family custom, and their happy chatter served as a pleasant enough distraction. Brigid sat between the twins, and George sat next to his mother.  Sophie was too busy with them to catch his eye, and for that he was grateful.  In spite of the intimacy that must accompany such an arrangement he knew far more about Sophie and Jack’s private life than he supposed either would like.  He would never have willingly intruded upon them, and he felt last night had been very much a faux pas on his part.  He ought to have left as soon as he saw Sophie was already in the room.

However, when she spoke to him he could detect no difference in her manner, which was warm and pleasant as always.  

“Stephen,” she said in an undertone when Jack was occupied with demonstrating a naval battle to George, making use of the teapot, the creamer, and a half dozen teaspoons, “will you come and speak to me after breakfast?”

“Of course,” he murmured.  

The children were soon collected by their governess, and Jack gave each of them a hearty kiss before saying he must be off himself.  He stood up to take leave of Sophie, kissed her, and then dropped another kiss on Stephen before departing, saying he would accompany the children as far as the park.

Stephen glanced quickly at Sophie, but he could detect no coldness or reproach in her even when they were alone.  She gave him a meaning look, and he followed her into the morning room, where she wrote her letters.

She sighed, and handed him a ragged pile of papers.  

“These were behind Jack’s desk.  I found them when I was looking for our lease to the house.”

Stephen gave them a cursory glance.  At one time he would have scrupled to do so, but now when all their affairs were connected his conscience was less nice.

“Who is this Daniel Hawthorne?” he asked, seeing one name over again.

“I don’t know; I haven’t met him,” Sophie said unhappily.  “Stephen, I think he is nothing but a swindler.  I don’t think Jack has given him anything yet--see that last letter is dated only two days ago--oh, but I am worried.”

Sophie might not have been the most accommodating wife, but she was an excellent manager.  Stephen trusted her in matters of business far more than Jack, and since his marriage he had done his little best to lend her support whenever the subject of their finances had come up, or whenever Jack had shown signs of becoming involved in yet another scheme.  Together they had managed things tolerably well; Stephen understood Jack after a decade of friendship, and he had been able to distract him or remove him from from the most dire situations.  He hated to manipulate Jack, and in spite of his profession he despised double-dealings in his personal affairs.  But he could see that it was necessary, and he had felt he owed it to Sophie, who had been so understanding of her husband’s unconventional second marriage.  She had worked so hard to make Stephen feel welcome, and to be a mother to Brigid, that Stephen had never felt able to deny her any request.  And she made little enough of those; they were always, like this one, to the benefit of the family.

“I will see what can be done,” Stephen said at last.  

“Oh, thank you Stephen!” she said, her brow clearing.

 

 

  
  
  
Jack wore two rings; unobtrusive, small, gold.  They might have been mistaken for one when viewed quickly upon his left hand.  Although as a man he was entitled to take a second wife (and it was more common in the Navy than in other professions) he had been married to Sophie for nearly ten years and never yet done so.  

His friends might have been surprised; he could certainly afford to (when not subject to sudden reversals of fortune), and he was known to a be a lusty energetic man, and a great lover of women.  Those who knew him better might have suspected it was his wife’s jealousy that prevented him.

But Stephen, who knew him best of all, knew the real reason and it did him credit.  Jack genuinely loved Sophie, and though their lovemaking might not have been all that he desired, he would never have reproached her publically or privately by taking another wife.  

The idea that he might take a man for a husband would have been even more ludicrous.  Although technically legal in England since the time of Edward II it was rarely done--in certain circles taking a husband after a wife was seen as rather cosmopolitan, but in the ton it was still viewed as an eccentricity.  

Yet Jack Aubrey had taken a husband as his second spouse nearly twelve months ago.  If his choice had been any other than Stephen Maturin the talk would have been that he had run mad; as it was, even his closest friends had been bewildered.

But by and by it had begun to make a strange kind of sense; Stephen’s first marriage to Diana Villiers had been disastrous--had ended with her untimely death--had produced a child that Maturin was ill-equipped to care for.  Linking the two families by marriage gave Brigid Maturin a legal home with her cousins, and should anything happen to her father she was doubly protected by the laws of British inheritance.

Those that thought the good doctor to be not entirely sane--particularly after his reaction to Diana’s death--had even begun to approve of the odd arrangement; Aubrey, they said, wanted to protect his closest friend, offer him a stable family home, and perhaps shield him from fortune hunters. 

No one who knew Aubrey believed that the marriage was anything other than a marriage of convenience, so the arrangement was accepted tolerably well.  Sophie did not need to hide her face in public, and for Jack and Stephen who had always lived in each other’s pockets nothing really changed.

Stephen later thought he had been mad to accept Jack’s offer--perhaps he had.  He had been in the depths of laudanum affliction when Jack had found him, when Jack had made the offer, and when he had said yes.  It had been perhaps the lowest point of his life--and that was when Jack had come and rescued him.  So it had always been, from the beginning.  They had met when Stephen was poor, out of work, and starving--in dark moments he had wondered what would have become of him if Jack had not entered his life then.

So he had said yes--because Jack was beloved to him, and for Brigid’s sake, and because he had assumed his own deficiencies would ensure that he did not trouble Jack.

But it had not been so.  When they had exchanged rings and the priest had pronounced them married he had felt the bond--not newly formed, but as if something that had always been there was sprung suddenly into relief.  The bond that had eluded him with Diana in spite of all his best efforts had appeared effortlessly with Jack.  But rather than reassuring him it had only worried him further--loving Jack came easily, but did that mean he had not loved Diana enough?

Even unconsummated the bond was a pleasurable, warm buzz beneath his skin.  He knew there could be nothing physical between them; after a decade and more of friendship he knew Jack’s tastes, and knew that he enjoyed women exclusively.  Jack had given him enough; he would not ask for this thing too.  But even so a part of Jack went with him, a part of Jack’s love went with him, and curiously that had been enough to keep him from the worst clutches of the drug.  It had been a puzzle to his scientific mind; he tested the effects and found it was true.  Laudanum’s hold on him was dulled, and Jack’s presence was now the more persuasive draw.

They had always had a physically affectionate relationship, and after the marriage it only quickened.  Jack’s chaste kisses sometimes went on too long, and Jack was quick to pull him close during the day.  Stephen tried to resist the physical pull, the way he had tried occasionally to resist the pull of the drug, but sometimes--as it had happened last night--the longing overcame him.  He never resisted for fear that Jack would reject him; he resisted because he feared Jack wouldn’t.

He himself wore one ring.  The other that he had put on at his marriage to Diana was stored away.  Legally, he was free to take another wife of course (though men could have two wives--or rarely a wife and husband--women were still permitted only one spouse.  This did not stop certain enterprising women, particularly wealthy women, from engineering marriages to suit their own tastes).

But there would be no second wife for him; it was Diana or nothing, as it had been from the moment he had first laid eyes on her.  Too late he had realized that the flaws in her character were as unalterable as the flaws in his own; separately, with more conventional spouses they might have formed successful partnerships.  But his own insularity had been no match for Diana’s volatility.

 

 

  
He had several appointments that day, but he found the time to ask an associate about Mr. Daniel Hawthorne, learning several things that would have disturbed that gentleman greatly.  He was not very much surprised.  It was easy enough to find him--he was, among other things hanging out for a rich wife and he had regular haunts among London’s fashionable shops and circulating libraries.  He was also a member of Jack’s club, which was presumably how they had met.

He overheard Hawthorne discussing theater plans with a friend in a shop on Jermyn Street (the proprietor had given him a look of undisguised contempt upon his entrance, which Stephen had ignored) and then followed him out into the street.  When Hawthorne hailed a cab Stephen elbowed him out of the way and got in himself, ignoring the man’s outraged cries.

He had been planning to attend a lecture on the South American _Panthera onca_ that evening, but of course his duty to Sophie came first.  Tickets to the play were easily acquired, and he found Hawthorne with no little trouble.  He waited until intermission when the stairs and lobby were crowded with milling gentry and then made his way over to Hawthorne again, casually tripping him on the stairs.

Hawthorne turned and gave him a look of fury and violence, “YOU--” he choked out.

“I beg your pardon,” Stephen said coldly, before turning to disappear into the crowd.

The next afternoon he went to Jack’s club, where he did of course maintain a dutiful membership.  He idled a while near the entrance before going in.  He had been planning to wait all afternoon for the right moment if necessary, but luck was with him.

Young Hawthorne had already engaged Jack in conversation, and Stephen pretended to study a shelf of books by the door while he waited to be noticed.

Hawthorne saw him first, and frowned.

“I suppose they let anyone in here,” he said, staring at Stephen with real loathing.

Jack, of course, turned his head to see who Hawthorne could be referring to; when he saw Stephen his reaction could not have been more gratifying.

“What the devil d’you mean by that?” he roared.

Hawthorne looked at him in surprise, and Stephen strolled over to join them.

“I don’t suppose he meant anything, Jack,” he said, linking his arm with his friend.  “I don’t know him.  Perhaps he mistook me for someone else.”

This answer would not do for Jack, who was still demanding justification for the insult.  Poor Hawthorne could only stammer his apologies and agree that it had been a misunderstanding.  Jack did not believe it of course; he thought Hawthorne had been mocking Stephen’s shabby and ill-fitting coat.  He would have been the first to agree that Stephen dressed ill, but to hear a stranger remark upon it was intolerable.

Hawthorne at last made his escape, leaving Stephen to soothe Jack’s ruffled feathers which he did with practiced ease.

“A damned disagreeable fellow,” Jack said darkly.

“I’m sure you are right, my dear,” Stephen said truthfully.  “But never mind that now.  You ought to go to the Admiralty, this afternoon, I think.”

Jack brightened at once.  “Have you contrived something at last?  My dear Stephen, you are the best of fellows,” he said, kissing him warmly on each cheek.

“Nothing of the kind,” Stephen murmured.  “All your own merit.”

Jack was already off in search of his coat and hat, whistling cheerfully.  

  


Jack arrived at home that evening in an excellent humor.  Everything pleased him, now that he had been given a commission; the rented London house, Sophie, the children, and of course Stephen.  

He was at his desk dashing off half a dozen letters before supper, when Stephen sidled in.  

“You left these,” he said, handing him a pile of letters from the front hall.

“Ah, thankee, Stephen,” he said absently, reaching for the letters with one hand and Stephen with the other.  He pulled the unresisting Stephen close, until he was almost sitting in his lap, and perused the letters absorbedly.

He made a sudden noise of disgust and crumpled up one of the letters.

“Damned impertinence.”

At Stephen’s enquiring look he explained, “It’s that rogue that insulted you at the club.  I never knew what a scoundrel he was until today.”

“Sure he was an ill-mannered, vulgar, loutish coxcomb,” Stephen replied sweetly.

Jack snorted and went on to the other letters.  While he did this he began to speak enthusiastically about the coming ‘cruise’, his hand slipping lower to clasp Stephen’s hip.  He had been writing, he explained, to various members of their old crew he thought could be brought up at once, and Stephen allowed the familiar talk to drift over him.

When Jack turned and kissed him he returned it absently; when the kiss became less chaste he moaned unthinkingly, and Jack’s grip upon him tightened at once, turning from exploratory to passionate in a heartbeat.

The bond was there, thrumming in time with his rapid heartbeat, and Jack’s loving affection deep and wide enough to drown in.  

“Jack, Jack,” Stephen said warily, pulling away.  He had to close his eyes to call upon his self control.  Jack had pulled his shirt loose, and his hand was upon his bare belly.

“My dearest,” Jack said in a low voice, sensing Stephen’s weakening resolve.

With a shuddering sigh that seemed to cost him something he pulled away.  He gave Jack a brief, apologetic look before fleeing the room.

Jack sighed out loud, frustrated but unsurprised, and returned to his letters.

  
  


On the morning of their departure Stephen was surprised by Sophie’s weeping; it seemed to be as much for his own sake as for Jack’s.  In doing his best to support her this last wretched year he seemed to have endeared himself to her beyond even the bounds of their previous friendship.

Jack of course was eager to be off, promised to write to them all and bring presents home for the children, gave them all his love, kissed them all a final time, and then hustled Stephen off into the waiting carriage.

His good humor was not infectious; Stephen huddled into his coat in a corner of the carriage like a beleaguered bird, his thoughts quite obviously distant and elsewhere.  Jack was too used to him and his difficult moods to be bothered; he whistled cheerfully as the miles went past, his mind full of the ship’s provisioning and the thousand things there would be to do once he arrived.  

The _Bianca_ waited for them, with a full complement of old Surprises gathered from near and far.  Jack had been lucky; a half dozen of his old hands had been put ashore together when the _Dolores_ had come in, and he had been able to snap them up.  It was the first time they had seen many of their old shipmates since their marriage--Stephen suspected that the congratulations they received would have been more sly and amused had not their wedding so nearly followed Diana’s death.

There was a great deal to occupy him of course.  He must sort and store instruments, medicines, bandages, as well as what books and supplies he had brought in aid of his natural studies.  And there were the usual bruises and crushed fingers to be attended to as the ship’s supplies were stored in the hold.  

Even all this was not enough to keep his mind occupied however, nor were thoughts of the impending intelligence mission he had undertaken for the admiralty. His mind was full of Diana.  This was the first time he had been to sea since her death, the first mission he had undertaken, the first time he had been properly back at his work...

They had fought a great deal towards the end.  She had blamed him, of course, when they had not bonded; although he loved her, there was a complete absence between them of any deeper connection.  It did happen sometimes, of course; he had read a great many medical articles about it in the past few years.  The cause was unknown, but unwillingness on the part of one or both parties was often thought to contribute to it.  Sometimes it was resolved with time, sometimes not.  He found he could not wholly disregard the notion that it had not been an accident that had killed her, but that she had overturned the carriage on purpose.  He prayed for her soul daily.

And yet, did he miss her?  Did he miss the white-blossom smell of her, her swift anger, her unpredictable rages?  Did he not secretly believe that Brigid was better off being raised by Sophie--calm, prosaic, motherly Sophie?  First he had thought the grief would kill him, but later he was sure it would be the guilt.  He loved and missed his wife but not enough, no, no, not enough.

He had thought at first that he refrained from consummating his new marriage for Jack’s sake; he knew that Jack had made the offer as a last gambit, a life preserver tossed to a drowning man, in an effort to tie Stephen to the world of the living and keep him from slowly killing himself with despair and laudanum.  He had accepted, for reasons that did not bear thinking about, but he had not liked to further assail his friend’s manhood and reputation by acting upon those base desires.  The world looked upon it as a marriage of convenience, to preserve his property and estate and to protect his child’s future.  Very well, and so it was.

Why then, had he felt the bond form, as soon as the words had been said and the rings exchanged?  Was that why he had not been able to bond with Diana--because Jack had a prior claim on him?  But no it could not be; two bonds were perfectly commonplace.  Jack had had no trouble with Sophie…

A year on Jack did not seem unwilling.  The knowledge gnawed at him.  The pull of the bond--that desire, so long delayed--was as bittersweet in its way as the longing for the oblivion that the opiates brought.  An unconsummated bond was not enough to kill you, of course; strictly speaking it was not dangerous.  No one died of lovesickness.  But it was so rarely done--even a delay of a few days was usually enough to overwhelm the participants and overcome whatever scruples--shyness, impotence--they might have had.  He and Jack had been married nearly a year.  And yet Jack had lost none of his good humor--the weight of it did not seem to press upon him as it did upon Stephen.

So what was the reason then?  He did not want to importune Jack, that was true.  Once the door to intimacy was open it would be difficult to close--now, yes, the bond desired to be fulfilled--it was enough to make Jack overcome his natural distaste for men, perhaps.  But Stephen knew himself.  Once they had overcome that first step he would want to go on.  Would Jack?  Without the bond to drive him--his own natural inclinations restored--would he want to continue?  But he would feel duty-bound, for Stephen’s sake.

But suppose--unlikely of course, but only suppose that he did want to continue.  Already the bond--even weak and unfulfilled--brought Stephen pleasure and peace beyond what he could have ever anticipated when he had agreed to Jack Aubrey’s preposterous offer.  Happiness was beyond what he deserved.

  


 

As always Stephen had his own cabin in the ship, adjacent to the Captain’s.  It was clear none in the crew thought the arrangement unusual, or were at all surprised by it.  A lewd joke or two made by a scrubbish newcomer was halted in its tracks by a few brief words and a dark look.  The old Surprises were protective of their Doctor.  Under other circumstances they would have agreed it was a grand joke that the Captain and the Doctor had tied the knot; the way things were nothing could have been less amusing.

From what Killick said the Doctor had gone missing after his wife’s funeral; it had taken every contrivance of the Captain to seek him out and bring him back.  The Captain had played the only card he had left, and the Doctor had agreed on behalf of his child, to give the poor little girl a home.

The sailors, who were on the whole a superstitious, romantic, sentimental, mawkish lot thought it was quite the saddest story they had ever heard, and everyone had a kind word for Dr. Maturin.  Those Johnny-come-latelys that had been unlucky enough or stupid enough to make further witticisms at the Doctor’s expense after the first warnings had gone round were quickly silenced; after a few bloody noses the the crew was as snug and as comfortable as Jack Aubrey could have wished.

That first night of the voyage was a sleepless one for Stephen; as comforting and familiar as it was to be back upon a ship he could find no release.  For the first time in months he took laudanum, but ten drops and then another ten did nothing to dull a discomfort that was so intense as to be almost physically painful.

When he could bear it no longer he crept into Jack’s cabin, hating himself for his own weakness.  But Jack was welcoming; he did not try to press Stephen tonight, and if he was stirred by Jack’s gentle caresses then he could not justly say it was because Jack intended them so.  In spite of his arousal he fell asleep quickly, with his back to Jack and Jack’s strong arms around him.

When he awoke it was to the smell of Killick cooking their breakfast.  It was a smell that had woken him hundreds--nay thousands, of times in the past, and he rose from the bed to join Jack at the table, drawn on by instinct and memory.  It might have been any morning these past ten years--that alone was comforting. The smell of bacon, the taste of the coffee, the sound of Killick’s grumbling, all leant themselves to a certain timelessness, and for a half hour at least he was able to forget his cares.

Jack seemed to sense his mood; he was certainly playful that morning, he had thought of two or three new puns that he trotted out for Stephen’s rather disgusted amusement.  When Killick’s back was turned he kissed Stephen swiftly--with slightly more emphasis than was strictly necessary--and then went up on deck.  

That first morning seemed to set the tone for the voyage, which was a happy one.  Jack remarked several times to Stephen that they had never enjoyed better weather or more peace among the crew.  Although the ship was a new one the spirit of the old Surprises infected (or perhaps cowed) the newer sailors, who were quickly indoctrinated into Aubrey’s methods of leadership.

Jack only wished for a little action and his happiness would be nearly complete.  As he had hoped, Stephen had begun to come out of his doldrums.  Being at sea again had done him nothing but good; already he was more cheerful and he had begun to put on weight.  

They had resumed their former habit of playing on violin and cello together in the evenings.  Somehow there had never been enough time to play in London; there were always parties to go to and guests to entertain.  He did not think they had played together even half a dozen times at home this past year.  But here they had the time.

Stephen also came to Jack’s bed almost nightly; although not at first, of course.  It was almost as if he had something to prove to himself.  But after a few hours he would creep in, and ease into Jack’s arms cautiously as if he was never quite sure of his welcome.

It puzzled him, because he had always been affectionate with Stephen--he could not understand why he chose to carry on in this damned skulking way.  But then Stephen had always been a close fellow, and he was more than half-convinced that it had something to do with Stephen’s being Catholic.

The Catholics had so many rules about marriage and sex.  You could not take a second wife at all, unless your first wife was proven to be barren.  Taking a husband was unthinkable.  You could not become divorced.  Very likely there were other rules he knew nothing about.  Jack had at first been afraid that Stephen would refuse him on the grounds of his religion--it had been a great relief when he had not done so.

And in that respect he would have felt the worst sort of heel, in forcing affection on Stephen he did not like, except that it was so apparent that Stephen _did_ like it. He might embrace Stephen during the day, but it was always Stephen that came to him at night.  The better part of their intimacy, their physical affection, was always initiated by him.  He had more than once felt the swelling of Stephen’s desire through his thin clothes.

At one time the thought of touching him in such a way must have been disgusting--but he could not now recall ever feeling so.  Of course the thought of doing so with any other man would be abhorrent, but this concerned Stephen--meaning it was entirely different.  Why he resisted something he so obviously wanted was beyond Jack’s understanding.  But he was ever the optimist and he remained hopeful that in time Stephen would be brought round.

  


 

They sailed into Lisbon harbor; ostensibly Jack had messages to deliver to his superiors there, but he knew their real reason was so that Stephen could carry out clandestine business within the city.  

“Be careful, my dear, will you not?” Jack said to him in an undertone before they were brought ashore.  

“The city has been retaken; there can be nothing to fear,” Stephen murmured.  Jack merely nodded, his eyes on the approaching city.  It had been sacked by the French; he had been to Lisbon years before and it was scarcely recognizable now.

A rendezvous having been agreed upon they went their separate ways.  There was no shore leave for the men here; there was little enough entertainment to be found, none of it wholesome, and Jack did not think it suited the rather somber state of things to let the men run free.  With luck they would soon be on there way again in any case, Stephen’s loathsome business successfully completed.

Jack knew the work he did was necessary, but it was wholly repugnant to him.  He hated to see Stephen in any kind of danger, particularly since the incident in Port Mahon. Though Stephen had recovered physically Jack sometimes wondered if it had not left a shadow upon his mind.  He had thought he had caught hints from time to time--particularly in this last year with the the unripe bond connecting them.  

The day was not so very dreadful--Wellington’s men in the city were agreeable enough, he supposed--but he could find nothing in it to enjoy.  His mood had soured, and his own business quickly executed he had nothing to do but kick his heels until it was time to collect Stephen.

He had come ashore attended by Reade and Shannon, and he had given them leave to fetch a drink provided they stayed out of trouble.  He had no desire for liquor at present, and he had refused the kind offers of the officers to entertain him beyond commonplace civility.  He paced the docks in distraction.

He had been there some three quarters of an hour, walking back and forth and ruminating on these thoughts when a furtive figure crossed the road towards him at a diagonal. A small man, who he had absently taken note of earlier that day, for being particularly shabby in this town where so many were patched and scuffed.

He paused for it was obvious the man wanted to approach him; he thought uneasily of Stephen; then a shot rang out and he knew no more.

 

 

Stephen, having collected some confidential papers from his contact in the city, had been on the point of returning to meet the others when he felt a shock rock through his body.  He dropped to his knees, feeling himself automatically for the injury, but in a moment he realized that he was unharmed.  Bewildered--for he had certainly felt, and heard a shot--he knelt in the street until a kind British officer approached him and asked if he was quite all right?

The man helped him to his feet and he nodded dumbly, muttered a hasty thanks, and then darted off for the waterfront.  He knew, but he could not acknowledge the thought.  To acknowledge it would make it real, and it could not be real.

When he ran up to the pier there was already a cluster of passers-by gathered to gawk; Reade held Jack’s head in his lap while Shannon pressed his own bloody coat to the Captain’s ribcage.

Nearby some British soldiers had taken hold of a man, who was struggling; Stephen noted this but paid it no mind.

“The ship, the ship, get him to the ship!” Stephen said, as soon as he had ascertained that Jack was still alive, thank God! and breathing.

He paid no attention at all to the others on the short journey back to the waiting _Bianca_ \--the men were very shocked to see the Captain returned in such a state, not four hours after he had set out--but they were quick enough to follow orders and Jack was carried to the surgery with all speed.

His hands were steady as he pulled Jack’s shirt open; the patient remained blessedly unconscious.  The ball was extracted from between two of his ribs, the fabric of his shirt which had been pushed into the wound followed it, and he was stitching it closed before Jack even stirred.    
  
Around him he could hear the hubbub of tremendous activity, but it was simply another note in a familiar melody.  He paid it no mind.  He sent for two of the officers to return Jack to his bed, and only when he was alone did he allow himself to collapse into a trembling of nerves with a glass of brandy.  

What was the cause?  He had never done so before, even when Jack was more grievously injured than this.  

There was a knock at his door, and Bonden entered.

“They’ve caught the fellow what done it Doctor; just a bloody crazy anarchist--” Bonden followed this with a stream of curses, “They’ve got him in the gaol, but there’s no sense in him, sir, I went ashore and saw for myself.  He saw the Captain walking along the pier and just the sight of it drove him mad it seems; I think he mistook the Captain for another man entirely.”

Stephen nodded, somehow not surprised.  Was it better or worse that it should be random chance, and not a plot of their enemies?  

“The Captain will be better presently,” he said, seeing Bonden was looking simultaneously ill-at-ease and hopeful.  “He has recovered from worse.”

“Aye, sir.  Thank you, sir.  Can I get you anything?”

Stephen shook his head, thin-lipped and pale, and Bonden left him reluctantly, not at all reassured.

 

 

 

Jack was up the next day, and Stephen checked his wound with a mixture of surprise and displeasure.  It looked angry and red, as if it would soon be infected.  Jack was whiter than usual, but he bore up well under the pain, and would not stay in the harbor over ‘such a trifling thing.’

Accordingly the _Bianca_ set sail and continued its cruise, but its peace had been cut up.  Nearly everyone on board was fond of the Captain, and although Reade and Shannon had appeared on the scene nearly as soon as the shot had been fired--drawn from curiosity rather than any suspicion that their Captain had been injured--from a nearby hut that served as tavern, the crew blamed them for not being at hand to prevent the incident entirely.  There was no outward show of violence or displeasure, but the unfailing politeness of their shipmates could not have served to more perfectly isolate the unfortunate duo.

Jack was too preoccupied with the pain of his injury, and the task of keeping the ship on course to notice the trouble in the crew and the discomfiture of two of his officers.  He thought he must be getting old; he had never known an injury to be so plaguey, particularly one that Stephen had treated.  He felt hot and tired and irritable, but he did not want to let on to anyone that he was so unwell.  It was, after all, quite a minor wound compared to many he had taken, and even if it was uncomfortable now he knew it would soon be better.

This prediction proved spurious, however; a week passed, and the wound did not improve.  Jack took a low fever he could not shake, and the hole in his flesh refused to close in spite of all Stephen’s care.  Jack could see perfectly well that Stephen grew worried and careworn, and he feigned a greater cheerfulness and confidence than he felt.  It would not do for Stephen to blame himself, or his own lack of skill, for whatever weakness was intrinsic to himself.  

Stephen for his part could tell that Jack was working to shield him from the pain.  He could still feel warmth and affection from their connection, but faintly; it was not the exuberance that radiated outward when Jack was well.  It made him snappish and disagreeable in turn, the more so when Jack--who was in so much pain and fever himself--bore his moods with stoicism and equanimity.

Jack grew no better, but he grew no worse neither.  He was well enough to give orders and stump around the deck, but these brief excursions left him exhausted and miserable.  Mowett took on as many of his tasks as could be done surreptitiously without giving offense, leaving the Captain the largely ceremonial and less taxing jobs to perform.

One good thing, at least, was that they made excellent time; soon they should reach Gibraltar and put in for supplies; the men might have some shore leave, and perhaps he could have the wound seen to at the hospital there.  

  
  


Stephen forced himself to tend to his own studies.  He would go mad otherwise.  He was coldly furious that Jack’s wound refused to heal; it was almost a personal affront, a reflection on his character.  Suppose the fever got worse and he died?

No, it did not bear thinking of.  There were his long-delayed articles for various publications to be written, specimens to be catalogued, books to read.  Jack did not improve, but neither did he grow worse, and so he could not in good conscience force himself upon him more than two or three times a day to check and redress the wound.  They both must maintain this fiction, that he was not so very bad.

But he was very wroth with himself, as if he himself had caused the harm, and poisoned the wound.    
  
In amongst his journals on naturalism there was a slim volume On the Nature of Bonding by Dr. J.J. Madelsohn that gave him a pang to see.  It was quite useless now, and he wondered how it had slipped in among the other books.  Nevertheless he took it down and began to read it in a dull sort of penance--he had spared little enough thought to poor Diana these past few days.

It was one he had read before but discarded, it having no specific application to his difficulties with Diana; nevertheless there were several interesting cases in it that proved an absorbing distraction.

_...Those bonds which are not the common marital bonds, but may be termed ‘soul’ or ‘spirit’ bonds are to be found infrequently.  They seem always to occur between parties who are not married, though marriage will inevitably strengthen and fortify them.  They are so rare that until recently they were thought to be mythical (for example, the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere) but two or three cases have been creditably documented in modern times, and there is historical evidence of more._

_In such cases, the parties are able to pass and exchange more than the simple empathy that occurs in the normal marital bond.  Although telepathy or thought-reading is thought to be impossible, specific sensations can be exchanged to a high degree of accuracy and precision; with time and the application of scientific methods it may be possible to further improve and refine these impressions._

_There are reports that the practitioners of certain Eastern cults are able to do so with specialized training (sometimes lasting for years or even decades).  Additionally, there are indications that it may be possible for one party to lend strength or ‘life-energy’ to the other, particularly in times of great distress or illness.  The corollary to this is that it can also introduce vulnerability from one partner to another._

_A curious practice among certain high-ranking Bhuddist nuns and monks is reported to be abstainment of fulfilling the soul-bond (since the fulfillment would necessarily violate the sacrosanct vows of chastity undertaken by the practitioners).  Unlike the common marital bond, such a bond does not become unstable over time (as in annulments for marital bonds that have been unconsummated), and may in fact be maintained indefinitely.  Although it lacks the strength of a mature soul-bond it shares many of its attributes.  The greatest obstacle to such a practice is the nature of the bond itself, which desires always to be completed. Avoiding fulfillment requires tremendous life-energy that cannot be spent elsewhere, and may over time weaken the body and lead to the exacerbation of illness or early death..._

Stephen put the journal down rather blankly.  He took his pulse, which was rapid, and noted that his breathing was too shallow.  He stood up, on legs that were imperfectly steady, and walked slowly from the room.   

Jack was in the great cabin with Mowett, and Stephen allowed them to finish out a brace of jargon-filled naval speeches, totally incomprehensible to him, before dismissing Mowett from the room, saying there was a ‘medical matter’ he must discuss with the Captain.  Then he barred the door.

Jack sighed, but unbuttoned his coat gamely enough.  “Though I feel your diligence is becoming perhaps a little overzealous, Doctor,” he complained.  He draped his coat over a chair and began to pull up his shirt.

“Stephen?  Are you quite all right?” he asked in a different voice.    
  
Stephen was staring blankly out of the window at the ocean.  He blinked and shook himself.    
  
“Of course, my dear,” he said, and approached Jack.  The sun was hitting his hair, making it perfectly golden in the light, and he put his arms around Jack’s neck and kissed him.

For a moment Jack almost wanted to complain about the unfairness of it-- _now_ , Stephen?  When he was so low?  But he was naturally generous and would never have dreamed of denying Stephen anything--

Resignation quickly gave way to passion, and he was becoming practically lightheaded with lust.  Stephen guided him gently to the bench and pushed him down.

“Stephen--Stephen--”

“Hush, honey, you become overwrought.”

“Stephen, you will not stop?” he hated to beg, to push Stephen where he would not go willingly, but Stephen had never come to him in such a way; he felt dizzy and weak with longing, and if Stephen stopped now he did not think he could bear it.

Stephen gave him a piercing look, and Jack reached up to stroke his cheek.  His eyes were brilliant, his short bristly hair pleasant to the touch under Jack’s calloused hands.

“I will not stop,” he agreed in a low voice, as if humoring an odd request from a fretful patient, and Jack shivered in anticipation.

He was still weak and ill and feverish, but with every kiss Stephen laid upon him and every stroke of his capable hands the pain, which had been a near-constant presence this last week, grew less pronounced.  He regretted that he could participate more actively, weak as he was, but there was no hesitation in Stephen now, and he was content to be led.  Stephen removed Jack’s shirt, and tugged at his trousers until he lay nearly naked upon the bench; then he sprawled on top of him, kissing him lazily, always having a care for Jack’s wounded chest.

He was slight enough that it would not have mattered much in any case, but Jack appreciated the consideration.  Stephen was a complete and thorough lover, gentle but demanding, and Jack could not recall ever being touched with such skill and artfulness.  It made his other couplings look downright crude in comparison; and his mind shied away from that.

Stephen kissed his way down Jack’s body with scientific precision, over his collarbone and ribcage, down to his hips and lower, to suck and lave at his manhood. Jack groaned out loud, burying his hands in Stephen’s short hair as his cock was kissed and nibbled to full rigidity.  Stephen teased him luxuriously, as if he had all the time in the world.  Jack opened his eyes to watch and nearly came then.  The sight of Stephen pleasuring him, here in this room, was as thrilling as it was shocking.

Stephen pulled away, briefly pinching the tip of Jack’s cock to aid his wobbly self-control.  From somewhere he produced a vial of oil and stroked Jack with it--quick, business-like strokes that covered him completely, and then he leaned back to touch himself.  

After a few minutes Jack had begun to recover, and think that he ought to bestir himself to see to Stephen’s pleasure, instead of lying in this prone, lubberly fashion.  

“Stephen--” he said, but before he could speak further Stephen had crawled up to cover him with his own body again.  He kissed him then, deliciously sweet and uninhibited, and guided the tip of Jack’s cock to enter his body.    
  
Jack sighed, feeling the delightful tightness of the body embracing him.  The desire to thrust was overwhelming, but he gripped Stephen’s hips with both hands and forced himself to stillness, allowing Stephen to work him at his own pace.  

Stephen’s eyes were closed, his mouth parted, his face contorted into an expression of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.  Jack pulled him close to kiss him tenderly and they clung to each other.  There was little finesse now, just the push and pull of their bodies, and the delicious friction of their joining.  Stephen turned his head to kiss and suck at Jack’s neck, tasting salt and clean sweat.

Beyond the pleasure and the compulsion to orgasm there was something else, as if something were about to crystallize or explode within him, and he urged Jack on.

Jack groaned and cried out, and Stephen felt his spasm; a moment later Jack slipped a hand between their bodies and touched Stephen’s own cock, slippery with sweat and oil.  Stephen shook and pushed into the grasp and came himself, and then he felt it snap into being, like a rainbow coming to shine over the ocean following a prolonged squall.

  


 

Later, retiring to Jack’s bunk together there were confessions to be made and declarations to be professed, but they were not of the kind that Stephen had anticipated.  He lay drowsily in Jack’s arms; he thought Jack’s overheated skin felt already cooler to the touch and the fever would break by morning.

“Was that all?  I thought it was because you was Catholic,” Jack replied with a yawn, not much interested in the reasons now that the thing was done.  He greedily kept Stephen close to him, enjoying every inch of skin now that he could do as he pleased.

“There is more.  I never bonded with Diana,” Stephen said in a flat voice.  With clinical detachment he explained the circumstances of his former marriage.  Jack tutted sympathetically and stroked his hair, but did not immediately reply.

He frowned, wondering what to say.  To spare Stephen’s feelings he could not say what he thought, which was that Diana had never been like other women, and if their marriage had been a failure then it had been her fault, and not Stephen’s.

Stephen must have sensed something through the bond, in spite of Jack’s trying to shield it from him.  He stiffened, very slightly--he could hardly do more to indicate his displeasure when he was sprawled so wantonly across Jack’s body.  The bond was indeed much stronger now; so much so that it overturned all his prior scruples and made them ridiculous.  Stephen could feel Jack’s love and desire for him nearly as strongly as his own.  

When Jack spoke it was from another direction entirely.  “Diana was married before, wasn’t she?” he said.  “Did she bond with her first husband?”

Stephen opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again when he realized he didn’t know.  It had never come up.  She had never spoken of it, and he had never thought to ask.  But that was, in itself, an answer was it not?  Unlike him she had been married before--if she had been able to bond then she would have been quick to point it out to him.

He shook his head silently, but whether it was at himself, or Jack, or the situation he could not have said.  

Jack’s mind was occupied with other thoughts; he was nuzzling at Stephen’s throat suggestively.    
  
Stephen wanted to say something cutting and acerbic but the words did not come easily.  His breath was short, spasmodic, nearly asthmatic.    
  
“Again?” he managed eventually, but it sounded plaintive and very slightly aroused rather than coolly superior as he had intended.

“You might do to me what I did to you earlier,” Jack suggested winningly, in between delicate kisses.

Stephen was no longer a young man; nevertheless the lewdness of the suggestion, and the innocent manner of its delivery was enough to rouse him to full hardness almost immediately.  He had not expected Jack to reciprocate--certainly not so quickly--but it seemed he had underestimated him in this as well.  

He turned his head to meet Jack’s mouth with his own; Jack’s hand had already found his erection, his thumb brushing lovingly over the sensitive head.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly.  “Very well.”   

  


The next morning all trace of Jack’s fever was gone, and the wound had closed up almost entirely, a fine neat circle under Stephen’s stitches rather than the angry red hole it had been this past week and more.  

He is healing remarkably well, Stephen reflected.  He himself felt tired and pleasant, but slightly wrung out.  He had stayed curled up in Jack’s bunk while Jack cheerfully rose to shave and dress and hasten off to breakfast.  He wondered if it was the sympathetic rebound implicit in Madelsohn’s article, and if perhaps in his eagerness to see Jack well he had given away too much of himself.  All well.  He dressed himself and followed Jack languidly to the breakfast table; there would certainly be plenty of time for experimentation.


End file.
